


Letters to a Stranger

by minorthirds



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Stormblood, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorthirds/pseuds/minorthirds
Summary: Fifty-some-odd letters, and he had not yet finished the one that mattered most before the return of its intended recipient.Fury.It bore repeating.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> hey it's me! back at it again with no self-control!
> 
> a solid 90% of this fic inspiration came from the fact that i play aymeric at citta-alveare (yup, that's me!). i have an ongoing thread with violet evergarden, which led me to think about letters and xiv canon and i turned into an emotional mess as i often do and this appeared.
> 
> i have no idea how long this is gonna be but i'm thinking somewhere in the ballpark of 3-5 chapters? it depends on how much i feel like dying.
> 
> i won't keep you for too long prattling on about my own stuff. without further ado, please enjoy!

The night streets of the Pillars were quiet this evening.

For months it had been certain that he would hear footsteps outside approximately once an hour on the hour, either Temple Knights intent on the route that had been fresh-penned to include multiple loops around the manor house, clandestine lovers making use of the night hours afforded by the new absence of the curfew that had defined all their lives, or residents of the Brume grown bold with their new truth – Ishgard’s new truth – venturing into the kingdom of their “betters”, their brothers, with quiet feet and quieter breaths.

Tonight, however, there was no sound but the guttering candle, the fire crackling in the grate behind him, and the soft snoring of Ser Pawvien in an armchair facing the blaze.

He was not sure which he preferred. ‘Twas true the clatter from out-of-doors would distract him from his work, but he found in time that the pattern of interruption was conducive to stretching and pacing ‘round his room to gather his thoughts.

Once a week for over a year. Fifty-some-odd letters, some more quickly populated than others, a hurried scrawl filling two pages front-and-back with more words besides to describe the happenings in Ishgard or scarcely half a page of merely the most salient points, depending on the topic. Not that he was ever wanting for news to discuss, only that he was mindful of the _interests_ of his audience.

Fifty-some-odd letters and not one in direct response, only once a solitary few lines penned on vanity Hingan paper that was as brightly-colored as it was fragile.

(That one was kept in a drawer of his desk, nearby his own stack of parchment, and every time his eyes chanced upon it he was seized with both pleasure and sadness – a queer mix alike to nostalgia.)

Yet he would not cease his self-appointed task, certain that wherever he is, Estinien is receiving each letter. He could not afford to be _un_ certain, else the doubt would cause worry to consume him – of course the dragoon could take care of himself, but for the man to be so utterly beyond his reach...

A flash of dragon-fire, blood-red mail across his mind’s eye, and Aymeric’s hand dragged hard across the page, crossing a _t_ with far too much force.

Discouraged by the sight, he closes the letter with more careful words and strokes.

Neatly in the bottom right, the closing read:

 

_Yours faithfully,_

_Aymeric de Borel._

 

The candle, valiantly burning upon the top of his desk, was used to heat the wax for the seal – perhaps too formal a measure, or perhaps not formal enough, considering that the letter contained (in well-coded terms that the dragoon himself would be sure to understand) fair details about the internal affairs of their nation. Nothing too sensitive, of course – he was not that foolish – but he supposed that if Lucia were to discover the contents of these letters, he would be met with stern chastisement at the very least.

The wax was poured gently upon the folded envelope, addressed on the back to _Estinien, care of Bokairo Inn, Kugane, Hingashi._ The seal was pressed into it forthwith, the seal of house Borel, and then it was set aside to dry, the flickering candlelight casting odd shadows upon the slowly hardening crest.

His work completed save for seeing the letter into the morning post, he instead reached for another, sturdier piece of parchment, littered with multitudes of ink blotches and hurriedly scratched-out phrases.

Tired eyes fell upon these mistakes, the evidence of a frantic, muddled mind, and he found that the events of the day left him with little energy to continue his work; phrases such as “My dear friend”, “I trust this finds you”, and “I have news that might” were blotted over with heavy black pools, recognizable only to his own eye for having known which words he had chosen before better sense took hold of him, and the fact that he was still left bereft of the right words to convey the turmoil within his breast was just as wearisome to him as the grueling demands of the day-to-day of Ishgard’s Lord Speaker.

“Tomorrow,” he said aloud to himself.

Tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

The letter was mailed.

Lucia gave him another of her Looks as he returned from his mysterious “errand”, to which he could only respond with a wry smile. Of course they had their secrets from one another, despite what many of the gossipmongers might _suggest;_ and he especially so, secrets he had breathed nary a word of to another soul, alive or dead.

So he smiled his wry smile, and she took the sentiment at face value and turned on a heel, and they both went about their business – and if there was a richer, rarer label on the bottle of birch syrup that accompanied his tea as a gesture of goodwill, neither would remark upon it.

 

 

 

 

“Why are we offering further aid to Ala Mhigo?” one of the lords interjected – a representative of House Haillenarte, yet a man he did not recognize, for it seemed the majority of the House had fallen victim to a bout of illness of late and had had to utilize the most tenuous of relationships and flimsiest of favors to maintain a presence in the House of Lords – scarce a moment after he had finished speaking. He had but lain out the plans for the next few months as proposed by the heads of the Eorzean Alliance, which included a _scant_ amount of aid, determined as the Ala Mhigan Resistance was to stand on its own legs. The assistance proposed by the Alliance amounted to, gil for gil, simply a cost reduction on the materials and labor pledged to the Resistance – yet, it seemed, anything less than _market value_ for such goods and services was altogether unacceptable to the lords and ladies of the House.

“Have you forgotten the state of our own coffers?” another interjected – House Dzemael this time.

“We cannot pledge all of our resources to the aid of a foreign power while Foundation is yet—”

“Does the Resistance, nay, the Alliance think us a _bank—_ ”

“And what of our men? We are too short on able-bodied men to possibly—”

“That is quite enough,” Aymeric said firmly, bringing a sudden halt to the rising voices around the chamber. “You all know as well as I—”

_That it’s the right thing to do._

Such an argument would not hold water with such people.

“—That we can ill afford to stand divided, now of all times. The Empire will cast its gaze upon us once more, and when it does, I would not wish to see the land many of our brothers – many of _us_ – fought to liberate lain out before them as a welcoming tapestry to all Eorzea. The sooner our realm might present itself as a united force, _stronger_ for its suffering, the safer we all – each of your wives and children, and each of _their_ wives and children – shall be.”

Quiet mutters around the chamber as each dissenter swallowed his argument, though none spoke openly against him, and for that he was thankful. He found himself wishing for Estinien’s presence, despite the man’s hatred of politics: perhaps a firm verbal boxing ‘round the ears would convince the House of Lords to accept even a _single_ proposal without dozens of barbed responses from his more public decriers. Just _once,_ he wished, uncaring of how selfish it was, he would like to see the dumbfounded expression on each man’s face – even Lord Baurendouin’s third cousin or something to the like, as he now recognized the representative de Haillenarte to be – to receive as reply the sharp tongue and crude words Estinien found most pleasurable to employ in the company of the High Houses.

Just once.

“You cannot expect us to donate blindly,” one of the older lords began, quietly at first but gaining in confidence, “to such an endless cause as we ourselves face.”

“Nay, I cannot,” Aymeric agreed. “What our Ala Mhigan brothers and sisters lack for coin they more than make up for in strength of spirit. To that end, I would propose...”

Such were the trials of the Lord Speaker – and such were his thoughts, having transformed the world around him but harboring an avaricious desire for more than that, such a desire as only man could have.

_Just once._

 

 

 

 

The shadows grew long, and he found himself once more at his desk, the heavy parchment splayed upon the top, his ink and quill sitting ready if a little emptier from Ser Pawvien’s bout with the feather, as described to him with some amusement by his manservant upon his return home for the evening.

Possessed of a stronger will, what with his success this day gaining ground with the House, Aymeric lifted quill from bottle and scratched out an opener.

_Estinien,_

_My dearest friend._

Crossed _t,_ period. He sat back to examine the phrase with distance.

It was progress.

_It is my hope that you will forgive –_

No. He dragged the quill through the beginnings of a sentence far too _groveling_ for the tone he is seeking.

An exhale.

What arduous work this is, he thought.

 _It is my hope that you will consider,_ he began again, _the entirety of what I intend to expl—_

A sharp knock at his bedroom door jolted him as he wrote, causing him to start and his quill to scratch down the page for several more ilms, the _L_ descending like a dread dragoon’s lance unto the breast of some poor dr—

 _Tap, tap._ Another pair of raps at his door.

Aymeric set the parchment aside, careful that his inkwell might cover the words, half-dried already because of his hesitancy.

“What is it?” he said, standing and opening the door.

Ser Pawvien darted between his legs and those of his manservant to escape the room, unhappy with the lack of food in the warm quarters and off to hunt for stray mice.

“My lord,” his manservant replied with a bow, holding out a sealed envelope. “Post for you. Please pardon the delay, I had happened to overlook—”

“That’s quite alright,” Aymeric interjected, halting the man’s sincere yet overwrought plea. He took the proffered letter with a small bit of confusion; it bore not the seal of an Alliance missive, nor any house he would recognize.

In fact, if he was not mistaken, the disfigured wax seemed almost to match...

“From Kugane,” his manservant supplied helpfully. “Dated two weeks ago.”

Aymeric nearly closed the door in the man’s face but jerked his arm to a halt at the last moment. “My deepest thanks,” he said through the small gap, appalled by his own behavior and hopefully presenting as sincerely as he felt. “Good night.”

“My lord.”

The door was shut, and then locked, and Aymeric nigh fell against it, his thumb already popping the wax seal upon the envelope – _his own seal,_ pried free of his own letter and melted again to affix a seal upon this one.

At least one of his letters had reached their destination.

He found a tightness in his chest at the certainty he could now possess without fear. Estinien had been listening.

He fumbled open the envelope with numb fingers, making his way easily through the crisp but scant lines.

_Aymeric,_

_I sail for Limsa Lominsa at dawn tomorrow. Circumstances permitting, I will return to Ishgard in two weeks’ time._

_I expect upon my arrival a round of drinks in my name and a colorful story or two about the salacious dalliances of the young nobles. How I have missed those._

And to the far right,

_Yours faithfully,_

_Estinien._

Aymeric sank an ilm or two further down the door, feeling as if the letter itself had punched him square in the right lung. Estinien’s dry humor was palpable even through his sharp script, and he had not realized until now just how much he had missed that wit at his elbow more hours of the day than he had ever truly been thankful for.

With a jolt, he stood full to his feet, pacing quickly to his desk to lay out both the letter and its envelope, searching the back of the latter for the postmark –

_Two weeks previous._

_Two weeks’ time._

“Fury,” Aymeric breathed, sitting heavily in his chair.

Then Estinien might arrive any day, at any hour. And he was most certainly _not_ prepared for the immediacy with which he would be interacting with the dragoon – not while the heavy parchment yet sat under his inkwell, mocking him in its inadequacy.

_Fury._

It bore repeating.

One of the drawers of his desk lay half-ajar, the contents of which caught his eye from where he sat.

The single other letter he had received from Estinien, on Hingan flower-printed paper, filling him once more with a bizarre complexity of emotion. Longing and dread.

A queer mix alike to...

The word loomed in his mind, yet he refused to address it, refused to countenance it. Instead, with careful hands, he collected the newest letter and its envelope and set them both within the drawer, closing it gently.

Aymeric de Borel sunk his head into his hands.

Fifty-some-odd letters, and he had not yet finished the one that mattered most before the return of its intended recipient.

_Fury._

It bore repeating.

 


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this train never stops
> 
> let's hope i can keep updates this regular, considering in about five days my irl schedule goes straight to hell.
> 
> please enjoy!

There had been a squire posted alongside the guards to the Gates of Judgement with explicit instruction to alert Aymeric the very moment Estinien returned to Ishgard. He could hardly wait by the gates like some heartsick wretch awaiting news of a soldier, after all.

Instead he found himself, on the second day of this arrangement, waiting in his _office_ to the same effect, powering through cups of syrup-laced tea and veritable mountains of paperwork; his small victory had assured him a few moments’ rest from the grueling affair of making a case of moral piety to an ensemble of overindulgent gentry, yet even as he made progress in _one_ field, another – the duller of the two – begged for his attention.

His internal clock had been well-trained to the precise interval at which he was best served by taking a walk to gather his thoughts, or at the very least stand from his seat and stretch the aching joints that complained of too stiff a posture.

Upon one of these walks, he had returned to his estate to fetch the disastrous draft of the letter, thinking to progress further on the work between thirty-page proposals. On some level he knew it was improper of him to mix personal affairs with those of state, but on another... the dread with which Estinien’s impending return had suffused him would scarce abide by such an argument.

So it lay, both physically and temporally, between stacks of parchment upon his desk, while he himself stood for a spell, ostensibly intending to take a moment to check in with Lucia – while he had not formally vacated his seat as Lord Commander, his second-in-command had taken on the vast majority of his responsibilities and become _de facto_ Commander. Such an arrangement behooved them both, as well as the state, though the circumstances being what they were he was ever more certain with each passing day that he was not the only element _dragging his feet,_ so to speak, on the process of relegating him to a _different_ desk in a stuffier building for the vast majority of the next few years.

Perhaps Lucia would miss him too. Perhaps she would take up his habit of long walks and mysteriously disappear to the Pillars between meetings for a round of tea and words, his treat.

He hoped. She was a dear friend to him, after all, and he would miss the constancy of her no-nonsense attitude.

She was a dear friend, and yet he could not in good faith call her the dearest—

A knock on his office door jarred him from his thoughts in a cruel reminder of several nights previous, and Aymeric paused in the process of refreshing his mug of tea.

“What is it?” he asked, finishing the process of carefully refilling the mug with hot water from the carafe he kept near his door before setting it aside to meet the knock.

He found at that moment he was thankful that he had set the mug down ere he had answered the door.

“My lord,” the runner said, “the Azu– er, the man of whom you wished to be informed is just recently come through the Gates of Judgement.”

So. The moment had come.

Dread and longing suffused him in equal measure.

He would take a few moments to conclude his work, he thought, and then set off to find the man. It seemed likely he would gravitate towards one of his particular favorite haunts, of which Aymeric could name three: the upper balcony of the Forgotten Knight, the Last Vigil overlook across the abyssal chasm that encircled the city, and–

Lost in his own thoughts, he had forgotten the runner still stood at his door ‘til the man cleared his throat.

“My lord, if that is all—”

“Ah, yes, it is, thank you,” Aymeric said quickly, aware all-too-suddenly of the talk that would circulate were he to appear outwardly as distractible as he felt. Many of the men who had espoused the old order had not quite _taken_ to him despite the unanimity of his election; these men would see him rise and then fall like a meteor to the earth, and ‘twould be a simple matter of rumormongering to evolve an image of him characterized by overwork and a feeble mind – if not to convince his supporters of its verity, then at least to stand as counterpoint to his praise, the better to sow doubt in the minds of all.

“Then I shall show him inside forthwith,” the runner said, bowing as he exited.

“Hold a moment,” Aymeric interjected before the runner could close the door behind himself. “He is _here?_ ”

“Yes, my lord. The message I was instructed to pass along to him was of your request for his presence at his earliest convenience.” The young man, who had hastily straightened from his bow, shifted his weight onto his opposite foot as if nervous. “Should I have not? Lady Lucia bade—”

“No,” Aymeric interrupted, but gently, well aware of the young man’s plight. “No, you accomplished your task admirably. Thank you. Please tell Estinien I would be glad of his presence.”

Another bow.

The heavy door shut.

Aymeric spared a moment to wonder at the situation. What had Lucia intended by changing his runner’s orders? Did she _know?_ She couldn’t – even had she beheld the draft of the letter, it was –

_The letter._

He crossed his office in several paces, sweeping the parchment under a heavier stack just as the door swung open again, the loud and low _clang_ of the latch being lifted and dropped to swing around and smash against the underside of the latch’s settling point echoing through the room.

He knew without looking up. How customary of Estinien to make as much noise as he could before stepping into Aymeric’s office, as if to alert him to and prepare him for the other man’s presence.

The door closed once more with a heavy thud.

Steeling himself, Aymeric looked up from his desk.

Had he had another century to prepare, he still would not have come away from the scene entirely unaffected. Estinien leaning against the heavy door with his hair hanging free – or in a loose braid, as it were, freer than he was used to seeing – and his eyes less tired than Aymeric had ever seen them to be, a large and full-looking knapsack dangling from one hand and his lance strapped to his back, was altogether a sight that, prior to the end of the war, he would have thought impossible.

“My friend.” The words felt strange in his mouth, as if he had begun to shape something else. “You are returned.”

“I am,” said Estinien, and the sound of his voice both twisted and relaxed something in Aymeric’s chest.

He had to wonder why Estinien would not interrupt the moment as they _looked_ at each other. Perhaps for him as well, words were insufficient for their needs.

Suddenly very self-aware, Aymeric stood straighter up, lifting his hands from his desk. “I daresay a stuffy office is not quite the welcome you deserve. Shall I inform Lucia of my departure? A round of drinks is mine, I believe.”

Estinien rolled the shoulder holding the knapsack as if it were stiff. “Nay, Ser Aymeric. What would your _noble charges_ think were you to desert your post for a single man? You’d be the talk of the tea for weeks.”

Despite the statement, Aymeric smiled, sensing an intent on Estinien’s behalf – or at least perceiving one – to return posthaste to such banter as was their normal. “Estinien. Are you suggesting that I am not already?”

In response, the dragoon offered an answering smile. Both the fact and the sight – such an expression appearing quite at home on his once-humorless face – brought another sensation of tightness in the chest upon Aymeric; Estinien had been gone a year and returned _changed,_ it seemed, for what Aymeric could only hope was the better.

“I merely took a detour on my path to the inn, Aymeric. There is no need to put aside your work.”

 _The inn?_ Of course Estinien would likely no longer find his quarters in the barracks palatable, but to pay coin a night for a room as if he were a traveler – “Whyever would you stay there, my friend? Ishgard is your home.”

The other man didn’t return his stern gaze, looking instead at the mug of tea steaming merrily away on the carafe stand, the one Aymeric had poured for himself but moments before Estinien’s arrival.

Silence stretched on for a few beats, a silence during which Aymeric became aware of the elevated rhythm of his heart. _Why?_ The reaction confused him.

“An offer, if you would humor me,” he then said. “There are chambers aplenty in my home. I had taken the liberty of preparing rooms for you were you to ask, but it seems I am better suited to the initiative.”

“Aymeric, you are generous to a fault—”

“Hardly,” he interrupts, the tone of Estinien’s voice alerting him to the impending rejection. “Ishgard is your _home,_ Estinien, and I will do whatever is in my power to make it feel as such.”

“I see,” came the reply, and Estinien finally met his eyes; his gaze was not sharp, merely... melancholy. “Then I would be glad of your hospitality.”

At the acceptance of his offer Aymeric fought the urge to exhale, a sudden inexplicable weight lifted from his shoulders. Only once the moment had passed did he realize the cause for his concern – were Estinien to reject his help, by extension reject _him..._

It would have been unfortunate timing.

His thoughts turned to the letter buried under the stack of paperwork, still leagues from a respectable product, and could not fight the downward twitch of his lip.

Estinien was right: though he might wish it, he could not abandon his work to gallivant about the city like a fourth son lent his father’s purse for the market for _one man,_ Estinien himself or no.

Aymeric’s gaze lifted to Estinien’s once more, and this time his expression was happier. “My manservant will guide you to your chambers. I shall return in the evening, but do not feel any obligation to delay any prior engagements for the sake of my entertainment; we shall have our drinks when you wish it, and not a moment before.”

“You overestimate my popularity,” Estinien said lowly, but nodded in agreement. “Fare thee well on your,” and this was said with a glance at the veritable tower of parchment, “ _endeavors._ ”

“Do not worry, Estinien,” Aymeric said with a grin, “my distaste for such busywork is, as always, eclipsed by your _hatred_ of it.”

“A vile invention,” he answered in kind with a shudder. “’Til then, Aymeric.”

The door shut behind him with much less noise and ceremony than it had opened before him, and at the final-sounding _thud_ Aymeric found himself collapsing into his seat, breathing heavily as if he had taken a sudden sprint ‘round the entirety of the city.

Oh, Halone, he thought to himself, settling one palm against his mouth. He truly was a mess in the company of the man, as he had feared he would be – time apart, and time alone with the decade-long realization he had only happened upon in Estinien’s absence, had left him ill-equipped to resume as if the man had never left.

In addition, he supposed it would only get _worse_ with each moment he delayed the inevitable; once he had penned the letter, left it in Estinien’s care, he could prepare himself for the resultant cold treatment, and over time (over a long span of time) he hoped the wound would heal. Yet ‘til then it could not – ‘til he took hold of the dagger buried inside his heart and wrenched it free, the muscle and tissue would continue to grow stronger _around_ it, around the foreign intrusion making his chest pain so.

He wished it had never appeared.

But, he supposed, tugging the marred parchment out from its hiding place, such was the nature of hardship: it was not received with joy, but moved through with joy.

Aymeric only wished the Fury had seen fit to bestow upon him one less trial.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "imma keep this regular! [doesnt do that]"
> 
> sorry, i'm here again, back with some more tooth rotting garbage.
> 
> enjoy!

It was for no idle reason so many of his fellows berated him for his tendency toward overwork; often did he burn to the stub several candles over the course of a night's work, and many were the folk who haunted the Forgotten Knight in the late hours of the evening that espied the Blue leaving the offices of the Temple Knights but a few bells before sunrise. In such a context, he supposed it was rather evident that his desertion of his post at a  _ reasonable  _ hour was a cause for concern.

Sers Handeloup and Lucia were the most obvious in their critical stares as he bade his farewells for the evening, though if he were of the mind to be full honest, he would admit that his attention to the exchanges had been poor. Plainly, there was something else on his mind altogether.

The odd acquaintance on the streets between the Congregation and the Pillars called a greeting and he rose a hand in response in each instance, though in the other was held a single piece of parchment which kept captive the greater part of his focus.

He had in the very moments following Estinien’s departure taken the paper from its hiding spot under a rather dull summary of the reports of the Alliance lookouts from Porta Praetoria; it was  _ hardly  _ of any relevance of late and thus remained at the very bottom of a heavy stack of papers that Estinien may as well have been allergic to for his distaste of the subjects. Lucia, however, was not as averse, and he had cause to believe she harbored suspicions as to what may have been on his mind regarding the man in question, so it was for that reason he chose to keep it on his person. It was not that he distrusted her. Rather that… well…

For a man of his class and station to harbor feelings such as his, feelings that nigh made a requirement of such a delivery as a  _ letter,  _ was ill-advised at best,  _ scandalous  _ at worst. Little was the care for the gender of one’s partner _—_ the high-roofed chapels of the Holy See had stood witness to an uncountable number of such unions, and he had faith the chapel in the Twelveswood had as well _—_ but… as viscount of House Borel, to raise an heir was expected of him. As Lord Speaker, the  _ height  _ of good conduct was in turn. As Lord Commander, the object of his affections ought lay outside the immediate realm of his influence.

He could nearly hear Estinien, telling him  _ to hells with “should”s and “ought”s.  _ That the business of his life was his alone, sod all that might insist otherwise.

Yet in the year of Estinien’s absence, Aymeric had changed, too. Whatever his feelings on leading his people, he had accepted the station and all it required. The decay of the Church’s hold on politics had left him with a near- _ papal  _ respect; he was no Archbishop, as  _ all  _ were aware (he had ridden on the back of a dragon, for the Fury’s sake), but the sudden vacuum in the wake of the death of even the  _ seat  _ of Archbishop required something to fill it.

There would be chatter if he were to wed even the most inoffensive noblewoman, that much was clear. Yet the uproar that would be sure to follow were he to…

He could not permit himself to finish the thought. To even  _ entertain  _ the notion of marrying the man he had loved for ten years, even if the depths of his feelings had remained unexamined by even  _ him  _ until Estinien’s sudden absence drove the dagger into his chest.

How weak the sight of Ishgard must be to ignore its darling’s open wound, he thought wryly, standing before his estate with his face turned upward as the last of the day’s clouds passed between the pale sun and the gleaming rooftops.

  
  
  
  
  


 

In the sitting room, upon the sofa, lay the still form of a dragoon, an arm cast across his eyes and his chest moving slightly with the passage of his breath. Upon his breast was curled the fluffy white shape of Ser Pawvien, his head tucked into the crook between Estinien’s neck and shoulder.

Errant motes of dust danced in the wintry light filtering through the panes of glass that remained so dutifully clear despite the room’s disuse, no doubt due to the loving touch of his manservant, and Aymeric closed the door gently behind himself before coming to a halt in the hallway, startled by the ache in his chest and the lingering feeling of itch and moistness at the corners of his eyes.

  
  
  


 

 

Estinien had arrived late enough in the day that the cook had not been able to procure the necessary ingredients for a feast suitable to welcome him, as the man told the two of them with a hurried bow and a flush. Aymeric looked to Estinien across the table, over the spread of steinbock flank stew and sourdough loaves, as the latter raised a hand to halt the frenzied apology.

“I am hardly the most distinguished of the Lord Speaker’s guests,” he said with a tilt to his mouth that seemed indicative of a smile, though not as freely given as the one he had reserved just for Aymeric in the privacy of his office. “This is a far sight richer than what I’d have made myself in the wilderness besides. Words cannot well express what a joy it is to simply be enjoying the fare of my home once more.”

Not nearly as to-the-point as Aymeric had expected from him; though he was gladdened by the sentiment nonetheless, offering an encouraging smile of his own to his cook when the latter looked to his lord for confirmation.

“Estinien is not a man to allow decorum to color his opinion,” he added with a glance to the man upon whom he remarked, one that was met only with the raising of a singular white eyebrow. “And you may rest assured I am in agreement. It is fine work as always, Eaunoux; thank you.”

Eaunoux accepted the sentiment with a quiet “my lord” and fell to the task of filling their goblets with red wine, attempting to hide the glances at Estinien that seemed laced with both fear and wonderment.

When the young man had left them to their meal Estinien sat back with a quiet laugh, raising the goblet to his lips. “For all my assurances he kept staring at me as though I was about to demand he resign his position. Am I truly so intimidating?”

“You are mistaken,” Aymeric said with an answering small smile, tearing a loaf in twain, the better to slather on a healthy spread of yak butter. “Those glances were not so much terrified as starry-eyed; he was  _ enamoured  _ with you.”

The smile he affixed as he spoke the words kept hidden the unease at speaking them, though even so it seemed Estinien held some qualm with the sentiment; the latter merely mumbled “Is that so,” into his goblet before setting it down and tucking into his meal in sudden silence, any trace of mirth banished from his visage.

Aymeric had meant to invite Estinien to the tavern following their dinner, but the sullen mood continued to pervade even when they together finished the bottle of red and a modest handful of tarts. With nary more than a polite word, Estinien excused himself to bed, and Aymeric found himself sitting in solitude to watch the flames guttering in the grate for some time, joined some time later by only one Ser Pawvien, who leaped into his master’s lap and cozied himself there, the soft purring the only sound but for the shifting of logs as they burned.

 

  
  
  
  
  


The day that followed broke overcast with snow-bearing clouds; it was the holy day of rest, but Estinien declined an invitation to join Aymeric for the Mass at Saint Reymanaud’s Cathedral. There were a multitude of reasons that might have combined to elicit that response, but Aymeric found himself dwelling overlong on the decision. Even as Temple Knights they had attended together; it was in the spirit of that tradition that he offered, and to have such declined after the events of the disastrous dinner gave him cause to worry that he had  _ offended  _ Estinien with the suggestion that a handsome young man like Eaunoux might have had eyes for him.

By the end of the service he had all but convinced himself that such was the order of events, and he had resolved to apologize upon his return _—_ before Edmont de Fortemps placed a hand on his shoulder in the vestibule of the Cathedral, bringing him to a halt and causing him to turn with a surprised greeting upon his tongue.

“Ser Aymeric,” Lord Edmont began before he might speak the words he had prepared, “I fear the other moon should fall and reveal unto us a _moogle_ of preternatural strength ere I were to gain your attention.”

The confused glance of one eavesdropper was lost on Aymeric as his jaw slackened, bereft as he was of a suitable response. “My apologies,” he said at last. “I have been… distracted, of late.”

“A result of your dogged determination to work yourself half to death, no doubt,” Edmont said darkly, though his tone brightened after the words, having come as close to admonishing Aymeric as was appropriate in a space such as the Cathedral. Yet more rumours might take wing upon the observation that Edmont’s concern for Aymeric bordered on the fatherly, and Aymeric appreciated the decorum exercised by the man.

Mayhap he was too preoccupied with gossipmongers and their ilk… but the worse extreme was to ignore them and damn himself to an abysmal public image. He had no doubt Estinien would have qualms as well with such a mindset.

And with that errant thought, he had come around once more to the beginning.

If Edmont noticed the sharp downturn to Aymeric’s lips he did not remark upon  _ that  _ in specific, though he did at least make clear that Aymeric ought to visit his home in a handful of hours; according to Edmont he had been rather starved for stimulating conversation since ceding the affairs of House Fortemps to Artoirel, and Aymeric’s presence at tea would be sorely missed on such a dreary day.

When such was said to him, there was little Aymeric might do but accept the invitation… though perhaps the company would be exactly suited to soothing his nerves.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Lord Edmont’s idea of a leisurely teatime activity seemed to be a rousing game of chess. The gracious host unpacked and displayed the glass board and metal figures upon a table next to a window that overlooked the Last Vigil, the outer battlements of the city usually visible from the vantage point obscured by the thickening snow.

With a knowing smile Edmont had his manservant fetch a bottle of birch syrup for his esteemed guest, and Aymeric had at least the good grace to look abashed as he stirred in no less than three spoonfuls of the substance, the soft clink of his spoon and the metal pieces with their felted bottoms sometimes striking an edge against the board breaking the silence wherein they thought upon what they might discuss.

“Now then,” Edmont said, seating himself after having positioned the pieces; it seemed one side was wrought of darksteel and the other of aurum regis, the dark grey and luminous red-pink eliciting Aymeric’s curiosity as to the reason for the choice. The thought was no more than an errant one, one to fill the space between Edmont’s words. “Governing a city-state is thankless work, my boy, and I must tell you I do not miss it one  _ ilm;  _ yet my retirement is a sure way to ensure I am not privy to any but the broadest and most urgent news. How fare the Houses? Threats of mutiny, perhaps?”

Aymeric smiled, though around this man he need not take the precaution of pretending it was not  _ pained.  _ As they began to play, he told of his recent endeavours to pass measures proposed by the Alliance in the interest of aiding Ala Mhigo; from Edmont’s expression it was obvious that the man was not at all surprised by the muddied, dug-in heels of his peers. They had been like this for a long, long time, the both of them knew, and it would take more than a year to change the minds of all those that relied so strongly upon the old ways of thinking. They might be forced to admit Ishgard was part of a larger realm when it came to her external threats, her foreign endeavours, but the buildings and firmament of their home had not changed _—_ why should their minds?

Edmont seemed to detect the frustration Aymeric had inadvertently allowed to surface, and as such changed the topic, moving one of his dragoons several spaces; Aymeric’s eyes lingered upon the figure, its tiny spear gleaming in its gauntleted grasp (the detailing of these pieces was superb, he had to admit).

“Yet despite the challenges the House of Lords presents, they are ever the same as they were,” Edmont said, setting the piece down at its destination; its position left one of Aymeric’s pawns threatened, and he weighed his options, both in terms of the game and Edmont’s statement. But the man was not finished. “Something else occupies your thoughts, ‘tis plain. My ear is yours, should you have need of it.”

Aymeric took a few moments to collect his thoughts, settling on moving the pawn out of harm’s way, content that no other pieces would be endangered by the action. “I’ve,” he began softly, releasing the piece with some hesitance, “harbored sentiments I wish to express to the person that elicits them, and I seem unable to find the words.”

To discuss such a thing with Edmont stoked a fear in his stomach, but the other man was good, was kind; he would not pry, and he would not think any less of Aymeric for his concerns, which might amount to some as a display of Aymeric’s weaknesses. Whether he could keep the  _ person  _ to whom he referred vague enough, however… he would have to be very careful.

“How might you seek to tell this person?” Edmont asked, regarding the board as he sipped at his freshly warmed tea, as black as his lined coat.

“I have decided on a letter,” Aymeric said. “I wish to allow them the chance to reflect upon what such sentiments might mean for the future of our relationship, for good or for ill.”

Edmont made a soft noise, reaching for a pawn. “Do you have cause to suspect a poor outcome?”

To describe the details that elicit his concern, Aymeric would have to reveal the identity of the person; Estinien’s marked distance, the ways he has  _ changed,  _ the entire situation with Eaunoux… each only made more firm his decision. He hoped Edmont did not think overlong on the halting pattern of his words. “Perhaps,” he said, watching Edmont settle his pawn and reaching for one of his knights. “Yet I wonder if it is my caution that convinces me. I do not wish to undermine the respect I have worked to obtain _—_ ”

“Their respect?”

“The people’s respect.”

Edmont raised his eyes to Aymeric’s at that, an obvious frown on his face. “And how might  _ the people  _ be deserving of your consideration in a private matter that hardly concerns them?”

Aymeric placed his knight as an excuse to avert his eyes, reaching for his cup, which had gone cool to the touch. “I find it difficult to separate my private matters from my station,” he said after the pause. “What fragile authority I command is wholly reliant upon the opinions of the people.”

Edmont lifted his queen. “The people will not soon forget all you’ve done for us,” he said, eyeing the board, “their temperaments wholly notwithstanding. The character of whomever you have found worthy to hold your heart is unquestionable; you are a good man, Aymeric, and the people know that.” He placed her a few spaces away. “That is check, by the by.”

He had been too distracted to realize the opening he had given Edmont, and he took a long span of seconds to reevaluate the board and his own thoughts. He had only a pawn to move to delay the inevitable; his king lay trapped between walls constructed of his allies, much as his own thoughts and concerns and preoccupations had been taken apart by scarcely a few sentences from a man who was more a father to him than the father he felled had ever been.

Aymeric moved the piece and shook his head slightly. “You are right,” he admitted, “as always, Lord Edmont.”

The man smiled back at him. “You are wiser than you believe,” he said to Aymeric. “You knew what I would say ere I said it; you simply needed me to.”

They finished their tea and their match, Edmont having soundly defeated Aymeric and sporting quite the collection of pieces as a result, and Aymeric aided him in the repacking of the set, handling each piece as if it were made of ice.

“Thank you,” he said at the door, “for everything.”

Edmont inclined his head, shaking Aymeric’s hand with a smile. The door in his grip, he paused as Aymeric descended the stoop, the cold snow tangling into his hair as he pulled his coat tighter around himself.

“And Aymeric,” Lord Edmont de Fortemps called, careful that no passersby stood witness to what he was about to say, “mayhap you ought to finish that letter of yours before the good ser dragoon wanders off to the  _ next _ continent.”

The flush washed across Aymeric’s cheekbones as he gaped at the words, left in the snow with only Edmont’s jolly laugh as he closed the door behind him.


End file.
